


Glöd

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Sure To Lure [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Loki Angst, Loki Feels, M/M, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Steve Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-15 16:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5792503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve claims he has no memory of the period between when he disappeared into thin air in the midst of battle and when he reappeared at the archaeological site at Uppsala or just how he got from Point A to Point B. The information he offers gives Jane Foster little insight into just how to map his travels, though she continues to try, determined to give the Avengers some kind of shielding from unwanted teleportation incidents in the future. Back at the Avengers facility and back at work, Steve finds little solace. Rather, he finds his thoughts and his heart pulled toward an isolated cabin in a blustering storm and the unexpected care he received there. When the object of his longing and wondering turns up in the flesh, he's both elated and terrified of what it might mean for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Rauður](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5634634) couldn't include any on-screen explicit material due to the exchange guidelines. Which, frankly, was actually pretty good for me. I use intimacy, both sexual and non-sexual, as a story-telling device quite often and I find that one often leads to the other in any order in a lot of my work. Having the option to include content that pushed the edges of what was acceptably mature/PG-13 but didn't exceed it gave me the both the freedom to, and literally the requirement to, explore the development of potential intimacy between Steve and Loki in other ways. I certainly alluded to things happening off-screen, but it was really up to the reader to decide what exactly that was.
> 
> The request from [missgnutmeg](http://missgnutmeg.tumblr.com/) that it be some kind of retelling of a fairy tale (and ultimately me latching onto the idea of using fairy tale elements or references rather than a direct retelling) let me explore more of my ideas about Loki in terms of who he is beyond the constraints of the MCU in ways that I have wanted to in [Petrichor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1116893) but really haven't had the chance to quite yet. I've been developing my Loki in my head since the day I got the idea for that story and the Loki here is very much a result of/extension of that.
> 
> I also left the first part of this fic off in a place that provided closure but also left the door open for a sequel. So, without further ado, here's the "missing night in Thrymheim" and the continuation of _Rauður._

“Get. Out.”

Steve laughed, forgetful for a moment of who he was speaking to, the ease of the last days—weeks? It was hard to gage time cooped up the house, especially when the days weren’t particularly bright to begin with—giving him a sense of booming friendship and security.

“I’ll die out there, I can’t.” His tone remained light and amiable. Wasn’t that obvious? He probably just meant to get out of the room, out of his face. Steve wasn’t stupid, he knew he’d struck a nerve. He’d meant to, though considering the way that Loki had been so open about everything else they’d discussed, he hadn’t quite expected such a stark change in mood.

“You’ve used the last of my hospitality. Get. Out.”

Steve had to stop himself from laughing again, incredulous this time. Had accepted Loki’s _hospitality_? Absolutely. Had he asked for it? Absolutely not.

Loki could have left him out in the woods to die. Could have had Fenrir kill him.

Could have sent him back to Earth immediately—Steve was no fool, he knew Loki was capable.

But he didn’t.

He’d kept Steve there. In his own home. Cared for him, gotten him healed and well.

And Steve was damned sure it wasn’t just _a bit of fun_ , as Loki kept insisting.

Steve squared his jaw and his shoulders, “Then send me home.”

“Out.” Loki’s face flushed with angry color. His nostril’s flared and his eyes narrowed down to slits, the brilliant green of them barely visible through a thick fan of eyelashes. His chest expanded, filling with air before he shouted, “Out!”

Steve hardly had a moment to think of a response before Loki was lunging forward out of his seat and seizing Steve by the throat. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and throbbed in his temples, his next ached with the pressure of the strong had around it. Steve found himself being yanked up out of his chair, his plate and cup toppling as he reached out for purchase against Loki’s force.

If he was going to die then, he was going to meet it head on.

He refused to drop his gaze; even as the liquid from his cup rolled out over the table top and splashed down his leg; even as he grabbed at Loki’s forearm and dug his blunt nails into the hard muscle, desperate to free himself. He pressed his heels down, praying he could slow down the speed with which he was being pushed and dragged toward the door.

The door, it seemed, had been slammed open. Icy wind whipped over the threshold and up Steve’s back.

Suddenly, he was flying.

He hurtled backward through the air and landed hard in the snow. The frozen top layer of it cracked beneath the force of his mass as he fell. What little air had been in his chest left in a rush. His body seized with the hard shock of the cold. Disturbed by him, the snowbank he’d been thrown into began to cave in on top of him.

Steve struggled to free himself, his limbs too heavy and his head too light—he couldn’t remember which way was up. He broke the surface of the snow with a gasp, his face hot and his fingers and toes numb with the cold.

Loki was shouting, his voice lost to the wind and the thundering of Steve’s heartbeat in his ears.

He couldn’t focus on the words, his attention zeroed in on the fact that his hair and his clothes were quickly becoming soaked with the quickly melting snow and freezing rain as it hit him. He drew himself up on his knees, tried to push up from the ground and failed.

Loki strode forward, reaching him in a few strides with his long legs.

His toes were blue.

Steve almost laughed, wondering how discolored his own skin was with the cold if Loki’s was that changed, delirious with shock and hurt and the rush of adrenaline that was the only thing keeping him moderately upright.

He looked up at Loki and was struck by the change in him, by the wonder of who he was and what he looked like.

Thor had said the Frost Giants were monsters—that he’d been taught to fear and hate them. That he had learned his whole life that they were brutes bred for killing, that they were somehow _less than_ for the brutality of their circumstance. Thor had also said he no longer knew just what to believe.

The image that Steve had conjured in his head had been something like a Boogey Man—huge and menacing and snarling.

He wasn’t sure what he was seeing was a monster.

Loki was frighteningly ethereal there in the storm. The hue of his skin blended with the wood and the sky and the snow. Steve could just barely make out some kind of ridges in his skin, like adornments on a crown resting just so against his forehead. Loki’s hair whipped around his face and shoulders in the wind like a frothing cloud of squid’s ink in dark water. His eyes sparkled in the light reflecting off the snow from the open door behind him, smooth garnets glittering with fear and anger. His lips drew back in a snarl and he pressed the blade in his hand—Steve didn’t know where it came from—into the underside of Steve’s chin.

Steve imagined he could hear only his own hard breathing and the growl he thought might be rumbling in Loki’s throat. He closed his eyes slowly, opened them again, and realized he wasn’t dreaming.

Steve gripped Loki’s wrist, daring him to press the blade in. He hardly felt it for the cold when the tip nicked his skin as Loki drew away. It felt like a warning, a challenge.

Loki turned abruptly on his heel and walked back through the door.

Steve crawled a few feet and braced himself against the doorframe to rise. He watched as Loki dropped his blade—ice?—into the fire and the coloring Steve was accustomed to returned to Loki’s flesh. He closed the door carefully, struggling to keep upright and feeling like he’d walked into an oven with the warmth of the house compared to outside. He shivered hard and sucked in breath, trying to shake off the feeling of bugs on his skin as melting snow dripped from his hair.

Loki turned to look at Steve, every muscle in his body pulled taut. Steve thought fleetingly that if you plucked at an arm or a leg, he might vibrate like the strings inside a piano. He wondered what octave Loki might be—high and piercing or low and resonant?

Steve shook hard, otherwise planted firmly in place. He gasped for breath as if over-exerted from crying. Loki’s hand came out slowly, cautiously. Steve leaned into the shocking warmth of his touch, eyes fluttering closed and his mouth falling open.

Loki kissed him.

Steve froze at first, unsure of how to respond, if he should at all. Loki’s hands cupped his face, drawing him in. Steve brought trembling hands up, balling his fists into the sleeves at Loki’s biceps.

He pulled away, breathless from the kiss and the icy grip in his chest. Panting and whispering, unable to make his tongue form whole words or open his eyes—too afraid of and excited by the way he thought Loki might be looking at him—Steve swayed, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels and back again. “L-Lo—“ He wasn’t certain he’d actually uttered the sound. He released Loki’s sleeves in favor of gripping the hard muscle beneath, pressing his fingers in. Steve grit his teeth, air loudly rushing past them with each breath. Loki was still and silent; but for his own breathing Steve might have thought he’s turned to stone.

He leaned in---up, just slightly, he realized was necessary—to press his mouth against Loki’s, his teeth pressing uncomfortably into the inside of his lips, his cheeks tight with strain.

“Loki.”

Loki’s hands moved from Steve’s face, encircling his shoulders and waist and pulling him fast and close and Steve couldn’t decide whether he was meant to be Rhett or Scarlett but knew he wanted to grab something and hold on.

Loki made a pained sound as Steve tightened his grip, his breath coming out in a hot rush against Steve’s face when he released Loki’s arms in favor of grabbing at the wide leather belt around Loki’s waist and the soft, sturdy fabric over his back and shoulders.

Loki turned them, pivoting their bodies and moving Steve further into the room and closer to the fire. He was glad for the warmth, even if it made him more aware of how wet his clothing had become. Steve found himself sitting down hard on the edge of his cot, the force of the motion and the weight of the body coming down with him making him lean back toward the flames.

Steve turned away from Loki to catch his breath, looking over his shoulder toward the fire pit. The flames seemed to tease, glowing brighter and reaching toward him. Sensuous fingers of light and heat curled and snapped, warming his skin and never touching him.

“Off—“ Loki’s brow was deeply furrowed as he stroked Steve’s hair and face with one hand and yanked at the hem of his shirt with the other. Loki’s arm cradled his waist as Steve fumbled with the shirt, his free hand grabbing it away and pitching it somewhere across the fire pit behind. They shifted, Loki pressing Steve down into the blankets and the stretched hide that made up the cot. Loki’s hands were warm and rough as the moved over Steve’s arms and torso.

He was alarmed when Loki gripped the waist of his pants, bringing his knees up protectively. A sharp look made him relax his body even if his mid kept racing.

“You’re wet,” Loki said, matter-of-fact, as he worked the pants down over Steve’s hips and thighs, peeling them away. Steve shivered, his clammy skin shocked by the air. He curled his toes in, trying to find whatever warmth his own body could sustain as his sodden socks were yanked off.

Steve tried to stop the moan that tore up out of his throat when Loki covered Steve’s body with his own, long arms and legs moving and rubbing, the cradle of the hide at his back stretching and straining under their combined weight. Steve grabbed at Loki’s hair, pulling his face down to kiss him again, sucking at his lips and biting them, turning away with Loki’s bottom lip between his teeth.

Loki sat up abruptly, his face flushed with color and his lips glistening and red. His fingers fumbled and picked and ripped at the lacing of the belt at his side. He cast it away and his shirt disappeared quickly, leaving his already wind-wild hair bedroom tangle as he pulled it over his head. He stood and shucked his pants and sat down again quickly, pulling Steve up into an embrace. They tumbled down to the floor in a graceful bending of knees and curving of waists. Loki swept the tangled coverings off of Steve’s cot and onto the floor with them, pulling the heavy fur around them before covering Steve bodily once more.

Loki’s hands roamed, groping and seeking as they traded rough kisses. Fingertips pressed into Steve’s hips and thighs. Loki shivered when cold feet brushed against the backs of his legs and buried his face against Steve’s neck, his breath warm and moist against chilled skin. A deft thumb pressed into his side, rubbing at sore ribs well on the mend. Tongue and teeth and lips explored Steve’s throat and shoulders and chest, marking him with bright red patches and bumpy little indents that left Steve shivering for an altogether different reason.

Loki rocked his hips into Steve’s, clearly affected, and pressed his teeth flat against the vulnerable flesh under Steve’s chin—whether the aim was to fuck him or consume him, Steve found he didn’t care.

“Loki—I—“ Hips moved again, eager hands gripped at Steve’s waist and backside. “Loki, no—“

He froze, trembling, and took a slow, deep breath.

His hands moved away, softer, sweeping up Steve’s flanks and arms and fingers working into his hair. Loki sank down, leaving them flush, belly-to-belly, still breathing slow and purposefully, bringing himself away from the frenzied edge they’d raced toward. He shifted his weight to look down at Steve, eye-to-eye behind the curtain of Loki’s hair falling around their faces. He leaned down, haltingly, waiting, his breath on Steve’s face.

Steve nodded, not trusting his mouth to form words, and craned his face up to meet Loki’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Glöd_ is a Swedish word meaning "glow, flame, fervor, or ardor." I thought it was fitting as I started with a story called "red" as a reference both to the fact that it began as a retelling of _Red Riding Hood_ as well as a reference to the heat of the interaction between Steve and Loki both at the beginning and end of that narrative. I also am a complete nerd and like the theme of using Scandinavian languages in writing where Loki is a main character. If you speak the language and have any corrections, please do let me know.
> 
> I'll admit, I've used this scene from [Gone with the Wind](https://youtu.be/yNvuIuWY3Sw) as inspiration on more than one occasion. Ignoring the dialogue, I always seem to imagine this one when I think of grabby, passionate, maybe-I-do-maybe-I-don't kisses. Is it very original of me? Absolutely not. Is it effective? Damned straight.
> 
> What an introduction, eh? :)


	2. Chapter 2

For as long as Steve had memory, he’d been the little spoon—though he’d only recently learned the term. It made sense, visually. It made him smile, thinking of how literal the metaphor had once been.

He could remember sharing a bed with his mother as a child, her body curved around his like a protective shell against the draft or whatever monster he’d conjured in his imagination—protecting him from the wrath of an angry landlord come to pull them out of bed or comforting him in his latest illness—his fingers twined into the silky corkscrew of strawberry blonde at the end of her braid.

He could remember putting the couch cushions on the floor of the Barnes family living room, sandwiched between Bucky and his sister after a night of sneaking sips of their father’s good whiskey. There had been giggling and spinning and he was pretty sure at some point he’d mooned the neighbors out the window after Becca had painted his eyelashes with a dramatic sweep of mascara just to see how they’d look.

He could remember sleeping on the ground in the field, the Commandos fighting quietly as to who got to snuggle up to Steve, who always seemed at least a few degrees warmer than the rest of them.

He could remember Peggy’s warmth and heat at his back and how they’d started out the other way ‘round and it just _did not work_. Peggy was all elbows. Steve was all knees. Peggy didn’t particularly like the feeling of his breath on the back of her head. Steve felt too massive and ungainly trying to arrange himself around her. They’d flip-flopped, Steve making himself small as he could and Peggy settling in with a sigh and her arm curved around his torso.

Even pint-sized Natasha had slept curled behind him, though the memories weren’t as fond—crowded together in the back of a hot-wired truck, trying to get in an hour or two of rest on the run from Fort Leigh back to DC after finding Zola.

Now, Steve came slowly into awareness of his body. He flexed his toes and arched his back and settled back into the warmth of the tangle of blanket and fur and heavy limbs. Waking like this felt utterly luxuriant. Steve smiled to himself and buried his face in the fluff of grey fur bunched up under his head.

His body felt lazy and electric all at once. It felt like a lifetime—it _was_ a lifetime—since he’d been touched. _Really_ touched. Not examined, not hit, not a passing bump from a stranger on the subway.

It felt like a lifetime since he’d felt like he belonged in his body, not since too-short nights spent curled in a narrow bed or a foxhole with Peggy.

Steve thought of the love bites—could he call them that?—that Loki had patterned his skin with and hoped they were still there, reluctant to open his eyes and discover that they might have faded.

Loki stirred behind him, pressing his face closer to the curve of Steve’s neck and shoulder, tightening the hold of his arm around Steve’s torso.

Steve felt secure. Safe.

He must have fallen into some bizarre, opposite-universe.

Steve felt solid and boneless and strung-out and hyperaware. His body felt used and empty and full and new.

He laughed softly at the tiny pecks Loki had begun to leave against his shoulder and laced his fingers into the long digits drumming a light beat against his belly.

Finally warm in the midst of their touching the night before, Steve seized control. He’d rolled them over, pressing Loki down into the pile of bedding on the floor.  He kissed along Loki’s jaw, wondering at the sharpness of his angles.

Loki took short, shallow breaths, expelling them forcefully each time. His chest heaved up and down, the tendons in his neck flexed and jumped. He watched Steve closely, intently, his eyes shining in the light of the weird flames.

Steve hovered on his knees over Loki’s abdomen, his own arousal pulling at his belly though it was only just outwardly evident. He reached out, touching Loki’s face, feather-light contact between his fingertips and Loki’s skin. Loki gripped his forearms tight enough that Loki’s hands trembled, a sharp ached settling in.

Steve smiled and laughed, “Calm down.” Loki’s eyes fluttered closed and he loosened his grip, his fingers sliding down to Steve’s wrists.

Steve twisted his hands, catching Loki’s and easing them down over his head. He leaned close, rubbing the side of his nose against Loki’s, brushing lips together, caressing cheek to cheek.

Loki’s mouth went slack, he breathed out soft and slow.

Steve sat back up, tracing the prominent veins in Loki’s arms from wrist to bicep.

Curious.

Another person might not have noticed—another person with less keen senses and less time and motivation to explore.

On either arm, just above the elbow, a wide band of skin that was just a slightly different texture—a smooth, invisible scar—startling because of the sensuously silky quality of Loki’s skin all over.

Steve’s fingers moved down, dipping into the hollow spaces of Loki’s underarms, tracing over his clavicles and around each curve and valley of the hard muscle of chest and serratus.

Loki clenched his fists tight, his knuckles going pink and white. His eyes squeezed shut, lashes glistening with moisture that rolled down over his temples.

Steve moved back, sliding on his knees and the furs, warmth exploding in his spine as he came into contact with Loki’s erection, brushing against the inside of his thigh and bobbing with the disturbance.

Steve seated himself on shapely thighs to continue his exploration, stroking Loki’s stomach and flanks, pressing his fingers and palms in firmly.

Steve gasped, running his fingers down Loki’s centerline, feeling that same infinitely subtle texture there. Loki’s face hardened and he caught Steve’s hands, pulling him down. He groaned, and shifted his hips, turning his face away for a moment and blinking to clear his eyes as Steve kissed him, pressing open-mouthed busses against throat and ear and chin and lip.

They’d settled beside each other, a tangle of limbs, each touching softly and listening to the pattern of the other’s breathing, waking every so often to resume.

Now, Steve rolled each of his muscles in turn, rubbing himself into the velvet texture of Loki’s warm skin before turning to face him at last.

Loki’s eyes were open, watching him.

“You have to go.”

Steve’s stomach clenched tightly. “Why?” He cursed himself for the crack in his voice.

Loki stroked his face and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back away from his forehead. “Because you can’t stay here.”

Steve curled himself down, hiding from the weak light coming in through the high windows. Loki stroked his back and shoulders as Steve listened to his heartbeat, astounded by the long spans between audible throbs. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Loki laughed, “You haven’t anything to be sorry for. All the same, you have to go.”

Eventually, it was clear that Loki would indulge him no longer. Steve eased himself out from under the heap of bedding and reached for pants he’d been wearing since he woke in Loki’s home. Loki sat up and watched him, shaking his head once sharply and glancing toward the ornate seat on the opposite side of the fire pit here Steve’s suit had been draped, and remained untouched, since the start.

Steve closed his eyes and clenched his jaw and walked around the pit as Loki rose, slipping quickly into his own clothing and sitting on the end of the cot to watch as Steve dressed.

He did so methodically. First, long leggings that compressed his flesh and then socks padded out to support his foot in long hours of battle. He sat to pull on the bottom half of his suit, settling his heels into the stirrups and shimmying to get the pants up, hitching the suspenders over his shoulders and smoothing the mesh panel meant to keep him cool and protect his skin from the roughness of the Kevlar shell he fitted over his torso. The top snapped into the bottom, fly got zipped, belt buckled in place. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the straps for his lost shield, yanked his sleeves down and slipped on his gloves.

Loki bent down and retrieved Steve’s boots from behind the chair. “I’m suddenly glad again that I decided to cut you out of that.”

Steve barked out a laugh, bitter tasting on his tongue, “Like your usual get-up is any less complicated?”

Though Steve continued to suffer through wearing over-complicated suits—he found it hard to protest when each piece was _supposedly_ designed with his safety and comfort in mind—he suffered all the same.

At least it was better than that the bright, tight suit they’d put him in the first time he’d had the opportunity to meet Loki. It was all flash—useless zippers and pockets, nothing to hold a weapon, more belt pouches than he’d ever need—and no function. The cowl he had to wear, attached to his shoulders and under his helmet, left him constantly overheated and half-deafened. The design left him like a homing beacon, eye-catching and peacockish. After that, he’d told Hill he’d rather go into battle naked than wear something he hadn’t been consulted on.

The Smithsonian had finally threatened to press legal action to recover his old suit after he’d stolen it—his second skin.

Distracted by his own embittered musings, he almost didn’t notice the fluid motion with which Loki sank to his knees in front of Steve. His head bowed, he worked the closures on Steve’s left boot open and lifted his foot, sliding it in. He looked up at Steve with an expression filled with reverence as he yanked the laces tight and smoothed the outer leather shell down to cover them. Steve’s breath caught in his chest.

“Thank you.”

Loki smiled, soft and ethereal, and took his hand to help him up. Suddenly they were outside and Steve knew there was no turning back.

Loki was telling him he couldn’t tell anyone about what had happened, where he’d been, who he’d been with. Steve didn’t need the disclaimer, he understood.

Loki was looking at him with an open, raw expression as he reached out and touched Steve’s face, the chilly wind lifting his hair as it whipped through the trees around them. His soft smile returned and Steve leaned into the touch.

“Wait, I—“

His stomach lurched like he was going to be ill, his vision blackened like he’d been staring up at the sun. Suddenly he was stumbling, nearly falling, and someone was shouting at him and Thrymheim was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t remember much of anything.”

“Are you sure? Absolutely sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Doctor Foster pursed her lips and slapped her notebook down on the desk just a little forcefully. Steve flinched, guilt curling in his gut like a restless cat.

“Dammit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. We don’t know what all of that energy could have done to you—did to you—we don’t know where you went. You know, maybe there’s not really anything _to_ remember. Maybe… Maybe! Maybe wherever you were, time was totally different. It could have only been a few seconds for you.”

“I—I wish I could give you more.”

“Can we just… I don’t know. Start from the beginning?”

Steve nodded and rubbed his face and resettled himself in his seat. “Sure.”

“The beginning-beginning.”

“It was a hot day, July fourth, nineteen-eighteen—“

Jane laughed, the tension between them diffused. “Not _that_ beginning. Actually—instead of when you got… disappeared? How about when Amora first teleported you? Did it feel any different than Wanda’s powers do?”

Steve considered it carefully. “Amora’s was like…” He struggled to find the words. Jane looked at him expectantly. “Like getting punched in the gut on a full stomach.” She cringed. He described the brief loss of vision, the sick feeling, the light that accompanied the charge of energy. “I felt like maybe if I was ready for it, been braced for it, it wouldn’t have been so bad?”

“Kind of like the Bifrost then.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“And Wanda?”

“Soft. Warm. Like a bath. Real gentle.”

Jane made a sound of interest and taped the end of her pen against her chin. Steve described how it felt when both of them acted at once, going through each bit of minutiae as carefully as he could, racking his brain for details that would appease Foster’s curiosity.

“And you saw nothing?”

“I mean—I—“

“You saw something?”

“No. It was dark. I think I was outside, it was like I slid on the ground when I landed? Nothing else.”

“Well, that’s _something_! I—“

“I think I got knocked out, Dr. Foster, that’s all I got. Next thing I knew I was in Uppsala.”

Jane’s entire countenance softened in response to the tense hitch in Steve’s shoulders. “Steve, you were gone for _three weeks_. We’re just trying to figure out what happened.”

Steve nodded and looked down at his hands in his lap. “I understand. I wish I could give you something more to go on.”

Jane reached across and squeezed his shoulder, “It’s fine. If you remember anything, the tiniest detail, let me know?”

“Of course.” He got up hesitantly, “You’ll be the first to know. I, um, I gotta get down to the infirmary. Doctor Cho wants to check me out.”

Jane squinted at him, “Doesn’t she usually want to check _Thor_ out? Got a thing for hunky blondes, doesn’t she?” Jane grinned and laughed. “Go, I know where to find you if I need you.” She opened her laptop—something that looked distinctly like she’d MacGyver’ed it, cobbled together with some kind of small scientific instrument—and began smashing away at the keys with her heavy-handed typing.

Steve made his way toward the infirmary, nodding at people as he went, acknowledging their apparent joy at his safe return.

He felt like a liar.

_Glad to be back. So happy to be home. I don’t know what I would have done. I’m so glad to see everyone._

He _was_ glad to be back, that much was certainly true. He was glad to be back with the little family he was forging with this ridiculously varied group of people.

But he couldn’t pretend that he wouldn’t have rather been back on Thrymheim.

With Loki.

He was even missing Fenrir’s grudging company and the uneasy feeling he left Steve with when he stalked around the house silently or looked at Steve like he was about to devour him whole.

He’d done less lying—to himself, to the people he was with—than he had since they pulled him out of the ice when he’d been with Loki.

Loki just didn’t _care_. Not about any of it—none of the Captain America _bullshit_. He’d read the files and he’d found _Steve_ somewhere between the lines. Everything was easier.

“Steve!” Helen Cho waved before turning back to the fledgling agent she was speaking to. She put her hand comfortingly on the young woman’s arm and spoke in soft tones and assurances. Steve had heard she was making the rounds with her regeneration cradle, patching up everyone who’d been caught up in a fight with some mutant who could spit flames while Steve had been _missing_. The young woman didn’t seem too worse for wear, though she limped heavily when she walked away. Helen turned the full force of her smile on Steve, utterly charming and disarming. He couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Steve, I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Glad to be back.” _Pinocchio._

She squinted one eye at him and tilted her head, skeptical. “Well, you might regret that in a few minutes. I’ve got you down for a full day of tests, I’m afraid.”

Steve followed as Helen grabbed a file off of the bin on the wall and motioned down the hall. “Everything short of a prostate exam. Unless of course you’re due for one. Then I’m sure we can arrange that with your attending.” She laughed to assure him she was joking. “Sorry, you just look so tense. Um, tests, so—MRI, CAT scan, stress test, X-rays…” She trailed off or Steve just stopped hearing her. It was a bad habit, zoning out when any doctor was talking, and it was a hard one to shake.

“Not to be rude, Doctor Cho, but I didn’t think you were a physician?”

“Pfft—no, not practicing—but it was pretty essential that I understood how the body worked in order to develop the cradle. And Commander Hill thought you might be more comfortable with someone you were at least vaguely friendly with poking and prodding at you—especially considering that none of us really know or understand whatever you’ve been through.” The expression on her face was so sincere, Steve found he couldn’t contradict her.

He felt exactly opposite. He’d rather have a stranger, one of the faceless doctors who had followed Maria over from SHIELD, than someone he’d have to face again later on, someone who was trying so hard to be his friend.

Steve nodded. “Thank you.” He glanced at the scrubs sitting on top of the exam table in the room Helen had led him to. “Where do you want to start?”

Later on, Steve glanced at the extensive notes Doctor Cho had put down in his file, mounting concern evident in the way her handwriting tilted and narrowed.

\--healed fractures ribs/digits/facial

_\--evidence of advanced reabsorption of hematoma_

_\--scar tissue in lung consistent with puncture_

_\--regrowth of hair/scalp ???_

_\--smoothing of facial scarring not evident previously_

_\--evidence of cranial trauma/concussion_

_\--body systems normal otherwise_

_\--healing advanced beyond what may be expected for serum-induced precedent_

_\--trauma via battle unclear, some consistent with whiplash/vehicular accident/forceful teleportation ???_

The list went on, detailing injuries to his brain, organs and soft tissues. Amora had done more damage than he’d thought.

Then again, Steve had trained himself early on to tolerate constant chronic pain. He never wanted to worry his mother, and not Bucky later on. He never wanted anyone to pity him. He’d continued to put on an iron mask of steadfast fortitude though the War—how could he expect the Commandos to push through pain and fatigue and hunger if he couldn’t? How could he expect the Avengers to?

Maybe the numbness of hypothermia and adrenaline had had something to do with it.

When they were finished, Helen stood looking at him with mild shock and steady concern while he pulled his tee shirt back over his head. “I—I just—how are you even _standing_ , Steve?” She leaned back against the counter with its collection of doctor’s office goodies. “It’s not like you’re Thor, or… or Hulk! You’re not built to endure all of that.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Not only that, it’s as if you were gone for _months_ , not weeks—even for you, that level of healing is incredible.”

“I really don’t remember anything, Doc—“ He was pretty sure it hadn’t been that long, even if his perception of time passing on Thrymheim had been fairly skewed. Days, maybe a week? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t even measure the time in meals or periods of slumber.

It hadn’t mattered.

“Helen. Seriously, Steve, its Helen.”

He nodded. “I don’t remember anything.”

“I can’t stay in town much longer, I have business to take care of in Seoul. I can’t really put it off. But I want you to follow up on all of this, Steve. The concussion scares me a little.” She gave him a stern look, “And don’t pretend like no one’s noticed how off you’ve been since you got back.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took a breath and bent down to tie his shoes. “Am I cleared?”

“For service? Absolutely not.”

Annoyance flared up in his chest. He shoved it back down. She was only looking out for him. “The gym?”

Helen pursed her lips to one side, considering it. “Sure. Just take it easy, okay?” Steve nodded. “And eat something later? Sit down with everybody and have dinner. Then sleep. Actual sleep. I can get one of the guys here to give you something if you need it, something mild.”

“No, thank you, Helen, really. I’m just, um, I’m gonna head downstairs if you’re done with me.”

She squeezed his hand and let him go.

 


End file.
